


The Roaring Girl

by zorrorosso



Category: Anime Sanjuushi | Three Musketeers, Aramis no Bouken, The Roaring Girl, anime Sanjushi/アニメ三銃士
Genre: Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29091693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zorrorosso/pseuds/zorrorosso
Summary: Europe, XVII century, the power of kingdoms is frail yet absolute. Laws are strict yet it’s easy to break them. Popular opinion and religion take the people under their grasp.Back in France, Aramis had accomplished her revenge and saved the kingdom from a war with Spain, moved on with her life, matured and rehashed older passions, talents from her broken youth. She had already made important decisions for her future. She is ready to be finally happy again.In the meanwhile D’Artagnan, finally reaching his role of lieutenant, is ready to marry Constance, but obstacles lay ahead and is in dire need of a helping hand.Count Alexander, D’Artagnan’s godfather, scared by young Charles' plans for the future, has a plan on his own, and is seeking the help of a trustworthy soldier to have his godson change his mind.Will Aramis find back her happiness?How could Alexander find an agreement with D’Artagnan?This story is inspired by the 1611 play of the same name by Thomas Dekker and Thomas Middleton.





	1. Chapter 1

**The Roaring Girl**

(Inspiration from the original text by T.Dekker and T. Middleton)

rating: 14+ (language and allusions)

_________

**Prologue**

  
  


_ Don't think you'll get away _

_ I will prove you wrong _

_ I'll take you all the way _

_ Boy, just come along _

_ Hear me when I say, hey ... _

When the days of the chrysanthemums had left behind only withered petals, and when the theaters had closed their doors on the opera of the Don Giovanni, when the summer of San Martino was dying in the early nights frozen, just as the mornings began to get darker and the fog descending thickly on a pale sun, Paris too began to prepare for the long winter.

The golden autumn, together with those last rays of light, between the rain and the fog, had again given way to the brown of the bare branches and the pavement covered with leaves, fallen in the rain and wind. Black and gray leaves, rotten by water under the bare branches, but still black, in autumn.

The air grew cold and the frost decorated the mornings with long crystals; while the snows, in a covered and white sky, were ready to arrive at any moment, to bring with them the white blanket that heralded the beginning of winter and its festivities. Meanwhile, those of wines and harvests were long over and, with them, the times of new wines, hunting and the roast of the last chestnuts.

In the darkness of a night that came too quickly for the inhabitants of the city, a smile grinned with satisfaction at the sound of the tinkling of coins and other objects falling to passersby. 

Cutpurse in the Venetian fashion: so the criminal had quickly obtained his loot.

Just as he counted the coins and objects that had fallen to the ground, distracted by the few possessions snatched from his victim, a sharp dagger gripped his throat, as violent fingers scratched his back, through his robes, and a hand lifted him from the ground, caught for the neck of his own doublet.

“I have seen you. Thief! Who do you think you are cheating! Show the knife!”- the clear voice sounded like that of a young knight.

The criminal hesitated. His first instinct was to reach for pockets and pouch, to hide the booty, but the kick of a boot on his shin knocked him off balance, the blade of the dagger sank into the skin, while an elbow pushed his back forward, on the cold and inexorable metal. 

The breath failed and the terror took over the diabolical vision: a musket!

"In the name of Louis XIII I declare you under arrest!".

  
  


_______________

Chapter 1

**The road to hell**

**is paved with good intentions.**

  
  


In my long life, I've seen too much. 

And played too much.

I could stay here singing it and playing it for another four hundred years, but I'm tired, forgotten, tuned out. Leave me here, so to rest and sleep, I'm tired of wandering, pass on over me and leave me alone. Don't turn my keys, don't touch my strings, let go of my white hair. If you don't like how I sound, go touch something else, listen and observe something else.

Now they say I'm too complicated, they want less strings, they want more ears, more chairs in the room. I myself alone, calm and flat, boring, at most there are two like me at the same time, against four, furious and wild. Now they say that I can no longer do anything, that I have gone out of fashion. 

However fashion, for me, has never existed: I am unique in my kind and in my appearance; individually forged by skilled hands and equally expert ears. 

And I'll tell you more: in virtuosity, a quartet can still nothing against me. I am always the most virtuous, the most elegant.

Over time, many things have changed: audience, rooms and players. 

Well I remained the same: older, weaker, but exactly who I was and who I still will be. 

So, lock me up somewhere, or hang me on the wall, by the neck, in plain sight, show me as the predecessor of what you know and hear today, because people who know how to deal with me have little left in the world. They exist and are talented, but they can certainly be counted on the fingers of one hand. And they have to practice, they have to have patience and love. 

Then cram me into any of your museums, let me rot.

I have played too many strange stories and have witnessed just as many, so you should leave me alone here, food for the wood worms, to collect the dust and forget my last notes...

What?!

Are you still here, listening to my moans out of tune? I have nothing more to offer to any of you. I was rich and noble in a past, where my worth still mattered. Then came the decline and the road. The incomprehensible chaos of the city.

And what about now? Forgotten is the right word.

If you really want to hear it all, this heavy serenade, I won't keep you on a string, I will play a story stranger and slower than the others: it tells the story of that rare character who gave me a new life, took me from noble hands and closed rooms on a snowy day. 

And she took me over her shoulder and arrived in the streets of the city in the middle of the night, caught the love of some and the attention of many. She challenged curious, untrustworthy people to a duel and her words made her lords and servants shiver.

I am not singing to you about those ladies who pretend to be chaste and faithful wives and widows, who pose an enviable reputation, but are actually traitors of the past and the present. There is no sound for those presumed honest girls who, mad with desire, seek in every way the joy in the pleasures of dishonesty.

I sing and play to you, this story of the Roaring girl who, like me, found herself in the middle of a street, in the middle of the city. She was driven out of courts, ranks and shops, but in her heart she has always remained honest to herself and her men ...

________________________________

Perhaps, however, I should start by the hat. 

Black and of English fashion, I had already seen it in a dream, in an uncertain nightmare, lowered on a black mask, one night at the Noisy's castle.

The night I was taken and taken away was not the same night, but a night of many years later. 

We were no longer in Noisy and we had recently left Switzerland, the hat was not worn by anyone and it was not a mysterious dream, nor a ghostly vision: it was held in the hand by a young man, standing in the living room of my new home. 

This fellow, of questionable fashion, ear and rank, with sure footedness, showed up at my mistress's house without invitation and without bowing, as if he had always known her and as if he were one of her peers. 

A familiar face. Where had I seen him before? In Switzerland! During the terrible journey that brought me here. Did he have a name?

A certain son of a Count, grandson of important people, my owner called him D'Artagnan.

I hadn't let him in and, if it had been for me, he would have gladly stayed outside the door. 

But someone else, as usual, had not given me any power about it: distracted by the knock on the door, she had leaned me in a corner, neglected as usual, completely ignoring my wishes and had given me no choice, but to attend the outrage of the sacred home and of the hour dedicated to music rehearsals.

"The treaty was burned" - said my new owner, facing him.

"How do you feel now?"

"Very well! I have gone up in rank! Rather, what about you? I heard of your latest venture! How did you manage to capture that man alone, in the middle of the night and off duty?"

My mistress had her reasons, she had business not to disclose to this son of Counts.

"Who? The bag cutter? A pure chance!”- she whispered between her teeth.

“Thank you so much for saving my life on our trip to Joules. If it weren't for you and your dagger, I wouldn't be here today!”- he said. 

My mistress nodded in gratitude, as if she too were her debtor, in a way.

“What became of Milady?”- asked D'Artagnan.

“She was buried under the avalanche for some time, but there is a suspicion that she is still alive... Have you seen her nearby? Be sincere!"

"No!"- he replied, and seemed to really say it honestly.

This Milady de Winter and her men had come as far as Switzerland. I had noticed them running from one room to another in Joules' Castle, but I don't know exactly why.

She and my new Mistress, in fact, fought right under my eyes! A duel to the death, torture and stabs, for a... For that ... 

A padded chair.

Oh! Beautiful, very soft! 

Still a chair.

Maybe I'm just a little jealous, no one has ever fought for me with the vehemence with which these ladies of marriageable age have raged for that piece of furniture. 

Maybe it's a sign: I should pay more respect to chairs.

"It's been some time since our trip to Switzerland, maybe ..." - my mistress looked at that corner of the room where she had placed me. There was something in her thoughts, a memory, a distant memory. I was that reference for her. Her voice broke into a heavy silence.

"It's already been two years since I returned from Gascony"- said the guy, my mistress nodded silently, but she was thinking about something else.

"Aramis? Do you think maybe I should ask for Constance's hand?”- asked the young man again, turning to her.

I don't think my mistress, the one he called Aramis, had the same idea in mind. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

"Sure! If you are in love, Monsieur Bonacieux would be delighted! Only…”

The young man knew what Aramis was referring to: something was still missing.

“Do you think Bonacieux might not have enough money for your godfather's dowry?”- he asked.

This was not what Aramis was really thinking about, her breathing stopped and she made a guttural sound, as if all of this was a jarring note to her ears.

"I do not know. Maybe you should really talk about this problem with Constance, but also with your family..."

"I thought you knew how these things work, what rules to apply, how to solve these kinds of problems... Haven't you already been engaged?"

"In my situation... Eh..."- my mistress's voice stopped.

The air stopped. The way Aramis looked at me made me want to get up and leave... But...

"It doesn't matter" - corrected the young man. My mistress nodded.

“Anyway, I'm here to bring you this. As a token of thanks. I decided that maybe you should keep it”- he said.

"Thank you, I will keep it as a reminder of past times"- she replied, her voice calmed and a bitter smile crossed her face.

It was that infamous hat, symbol of a terrible event that has passed, but was then past. A man is nobody without his hat, so goes for women. Well maybe this meant that the old owner of that hat, the subject of my distant nightmares, was gone. 

Should I have thanked these people and their long rapiers for his disappearance from my life?

I do not know. Of course, even my mistress seemed satisfied at the thought of how, the subject in question, could no longer strike terror and do more harm.

My kidnapper, or say new owner, had a familiar face that I also remembered. Renée? I think that was her name once, in Noisy, but no one called her by that name anymore.

She smiled at the guest, her friend, and donned the headdress confidently.

Under its brim there was no longer a dark man in an iron mask, mighty and mysterious, but a young and strange woman, tall and with fair eyes and hair, ready to show everyone her courage and determination.

She lowered her hat confidently over her head and looked at me, as if a crazier idea had come into her mind: that was the moment, perhaps the beginning of the end. 

I should have understood, but my head is made of wood, I do not light up with ideas, I fear any form of illumination too close to my splendid body, only the vibrations of my strings resonate any sense, in me.

________________________

In fact, shortly after, I was already with my head somewhere else.

That name: Constance. Mademoiselle Bonacieux, that name was not new to me at all.

I perfectly remembered her horrible chariot and the long journey I traveled in it, months before. Certainly not an adequate place for someone like me! I could have scratched myself every time a wheel hit a pothole! Look here, what a terrible dent! 

Not to mention my beloved rest! Constantly disturbed by every stone, hay and even some hens!

Little did my owner know of the other businesses that the girl and her housekeeper carried on in secret.

Well, before I was carried away by the terrible anguish that was just to exist in that infernal vehicle, open to all the elements of heaven and earth, I made acquaintance with a completely normal woman, with an apparently impeccable bearing and reputation.

Her name was Martha and she spoke in a double tone: very kind and polite. Servant of the Bonacieux family for more than twenty years, the woman looked at my mistress with a narrow eye and an almost imperceptible suspicion. Wide were the smiles she offered to the other men at the table, the generosity with which she filled their plates, as well as the hateful gaze turned in secrecy towards her.

"Whore!" - she said between her teeth, in secret, to Constance.

...Oh, music to my wooden ears! Martha was truly a kind and polite servant: only when it suited her. How did I already know and how can I tell with all this certainty? In terms of tones and vibrations in the room, nobody beats me! I found immediate attraction for a woman with such pretty tones.

"What?"- asked the girl, in complete amazement and without understanding what had happened, what her servant was referring to.

“A woman who dresses as a man, alone, unaccompanied... Even worse, in the company of other men. What would you call her?”- the servant knew her place very well.

"Who? Aramis? A woman?”- Constance turned to the cheerful table. She had never asked herself those kinds of questions and D'Artagnan had never revealed her anything, openly, about it.

“A whore! And may this be the last time that woman enters your house!"

"Martha... Are you sure of what you are saying?"

"Sure! And don't you dare bring her here anymore, without a husband for sure, and without honor, I don't want her in my house! That she finally decides to choose one husband and go clean up! I only serve honest women. And may this be a lesson to you too! Do not dare to end up like him, her!"

“But, Martha, are you serious?”- Constance still couldn't believe her ears.

"By now you are an adult and we can deal with these discussions!" 

"You yourself, Martha, don’t honor your poor husband's mourning and, from what I know, you and grandfather have been together. It has been several years..."

"That's not the point! I don't show myself around like this, Monsieur Bonacieux and I go our separate ways, in public. This is what matters. Everything that happens in private is just between the two of us!"

“But this filthy and disgusting one, shakes anyone's hand! She hugs them all as if she were one of them! Indeed, tell me, you too for some time have not believed her to be just one of the other men!”

“And with Count D'Artagnan? Such a woman at home, alone, together with your beloved! How can you be sure there hasn't been something else?"

Constance shook her head and left the room.

And then I noticed it too. A tall man, with a rich cape and hair the same color as me, had everything but the look of a family man, nor an elderly man of the house. 

He took Martha by the hips, turned her around and kissed her, the way wives, friends and sisters usually don't kiss.

For the moment that was the last time I entered the Bonacieux house, after that dialogue, just one more voice and one hand, carelessly took my neck.

________________

"Here, here, this is yours"- said a very tall and robust man, with beautiful brown hair, facing my mistress. 

She smiled at me, but now that the two were alone, she became more serious and raised her head towards him. In all his height and strength, the man's brown eyes showed a brief embarrassment towards hers.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I let myself be taken by...”- he said, almost in a whisper.

“It doesn't matter, Porthos. The important thing is that things have cleared up and that you understand the reason for my behavior...”- she explained.

“And that's why I intend to apologize! You didn't deserve my reaction! I acted on impulse and I regret it. But next time, remember to tell Athos and me everything! We cannot help you without knowing your plans too! ”- said the man in front of her, taking her shoulders and looking her straight in the eyes with sincerity, but also with some concern. 

"I'll try. Pass me the bow too, please”- added that young woman, Aramis: violent and rude thief. I meant my new owner. 

I, without my beautiful hair, and do not serve anything at all. Don't pinch me!

Why that character, also armed, seemed to take the affairs of my new mistress to heart, what was he really worried about?

Porthos and Athos, two characters who then called themselves that, that I should have kept in mind, as they would have come in handy in the future, but I immediately forgot their nicknames. Not their faces. 

Faces that, during this particular story, of the Roaring Girl, I will often find ...

  
  


N / A: 

Inspiration for this story 

Original poster from which I got the main idea, from the SSM website (posted by Joelle in Pintrest?):

[ Http://souslesigne.free.fr/popup.php?fichier=images% 2 Produits% 2Fposter% 2Fposter_musique.jpg & w = 417 & h = 574 ](http://souslesigne.free.fr/popup.php?fichier=images%2Fproduits%2Fposter%2Fposter_musique.jpg&w=417&h=574)

The prologue song:

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAx6mYeC6pY ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAx6mYeC6pY)

Johanna Rose

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YvpU3UYtVmI ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YvpU3UYtVmI)


	2. A cat has nine lives

Chapter 2  
A cat has nine lives.

A cat has nine lives and always falls to its feet.

And like a cat, I shy away from humidity, I too like to sleep long and silent sleeps, tense myself when I wake up, as well as sing in the moonlight and be treated and played as I want.

What about me? My sleek and sinuous shapes, my fascinating sounds have enchanted people from all over the world from the Far East to the Swiss Alps. 

In my long life I have overcome many more than nine of a cat and have fallen several times, but I have always stood up. At least: as there has always been someone ready to bring me down, for one reason or another, there has always been someone willing to get me up.

There are those who caress me and those who push me, those who rub me, those who play around and fiddle, there are those who hold me on their knees, just like the much loved feline and I, like it, repay my master of sounds and vibrations much more fascinating. Always, if treated in the right way.

I find it completely ironic the way in which hands and people have forged and groomed me as they please: because the result is nothing more than making me more precious and coveted in the eyes and ears of other people: hands and ears experts have forged my body, so that other hands and other ears can thus shape and decide the sound I make. 

Have I no choice about it? 

Not true: the choice is mine alone! It is I who choose the master who will play me, who dictate the sound that he must produce: it is all hidden between the shapes of my wooden body, the scrolls that support the keys, between the frets of my neck, the ornate slits on the empty case, the strings that dictate the chords, between the white hairs of my bow and between the long ovine strings that rest on my bridge.

I could begin by describing the tree that created me, from the May fronds that shaded the fields, the beautiful and precious flowers, from the farmers who cultivated its delicious fruits. 

A beautiful piece of raw wood, cherry red, like many others, which then end up becoming something else. 

A table? A Maypole? A puppet? A shelf ignored by passers-by, an error burned in the flames of the fireplace. And I too, like so many other objects and sculptures, found myself in the very wrong hands of out of tune musicians, distracted emperors and generous kings.

I remember the latter King and the Marquis Daniel, his faithful ally and close friend. I remember his family, his devotion, but also the mystery and misfortune that once haunted them after the terrible murder. 

I don't know if I should still worry about him now.   
Anyway, everything has a happy ending, an ending at least, time always arranges things, one way or another. What once would have seemed a drama, everything that then seemed an insurmountable problem, was finally resolved in one way or another.  
The how was resolved, after all, is another matter.

This does not mean that blood and suffering have not been wasted by human beings, ready for anything for an ideal, a concept so great and ethereal as to seem a sound, an inaudible harmony, what some call a dream, for one of those Gods. or their very absence. 

I remember François, his son and one of my newest owners. 

And I also remember who my mistress was formerly, the one who once called herself Renée, the enraged and distracted girl of many years ago, seemed to have grown up on a somewhat peculiar path. Time had forged her too into a sinuous and misleading shape.   
Time passes on all things, but on human beings, at times, it seems to pass much faster: it changes its shape, color, ribs, legs and hands... But the eyes, those never change.

On a snowy night many years later, in Switzerland, she too looked at me with the same eyes of the color of the sky, however I know that she could not distinguish my true feelings towards her, her hands touched my strings with rudeness and without asking any permission, as if I were a guitar or a mandolin. Certainly I could not suffer that intransigent, young, irreverent and spoiled one, who grew up at the court of my Marquesses almost more to keep Prince Philippe company than to charm the graces of my previous master. 

She was once the betrothed of François, a long time ago, now past.

Under her strong hand, my strings vibrated slowly in a slightly off-key regularity. My long sounds were certainly not a cat's purr, but neither were its unpleasant moans. 

At that moment, it also seemed to me that nothing had changed. 

After all, for me, it had only been nine years, but maybe it wasn't like that for her. Nine years for a human being could also be long years of sad experiences. Years that had forged, polished and cured it, leaving behind a new shape and a new color.   
From that point of view, our stories seemed similar.

“Maybe you wanted the spinet?”- asked the Marquis Daniel. Renée shook her head.

"No, it doesn't matter, I could never take it away with me, his viola is a more important gift... Thank you for keeping it all these years" - she replied, with me on her lap. He checked me with an attention that was embarrassing to say the least.

"You're out of tune and you should be tuned!" - she said to me, as if I really wanted to have that kind of conversation, carefully checking my vibrations, her flesh and skin ear pressed on me, while her soft hair blondes, far from being those of a wig, mingled between my beautiful strings, he listened attentively to the resounding of the drumming of her impertinent fingers.

All this was not possible: what happened to my master? Where had François gone? From the tears of the Marquis Daniel, perhaps it was better not to know.  
Had there been a before and an after, a new king? A new marquis, or a new emperor? Was he still the portrait of the head on my neck, or was it an object to be restored? 

None of this concerned me: the only regret I could feel was that of having been abandoned by everyone for almost a decade, of having taken too much dust and having been poorly trained.his

Rejetta from my master and now in the hands of the worst cheap musician I could have known and moreover dressed like a man: who would ever have fallen for it? Did she really want to get me out of there? Did she really want to make me hers in front of other people, in other unknown rooms? 

What a scandal! What a humiliation!  
Having to learn everything from scratch, tolerate the mistakes of a beginner, having to teach rules, gaits and movements: having to take on a new mistress, with rough hands, without grace and little-known cheeks. But what perhaps hurt the most, the real object of my anger, was above all the understanding that there would never be a time like this past. The first had already passed, that was the after.

I shouldn't have called my mistress by that old outdated name anymore.   
She had a battle name by which almost everyone called her and, in battle, her life in those nine years had been lived and consumed like a big log burning and burning under the fire of revenge.

Her old story was a sad story of love and death ... Her new story was in my happy company, therefore a guaranteed happy ending! An end, at least. That is, a series of ends and a series of beginnings. After all, even a cat, for all its lives must still be able to be born and be reborn. That is to fall gracefully and get up quickly.

At dawn the barracks awaited her with the changing of the guard, bright and very rich uniforms, the pride of the kingdom and sumptuous parades. This seemed like her life as a musketeer when she left her apartments. But there seemed to be something else that I tended to ignore: the long walks of guard through the streets of the city, the talks and discussions with the people and the most needy, with her comrades and her captain, the dangers that run after hunting criminals. All this came out in the evening, among the stench of a horse, dirty boots, heels filed by long patrols and the blood of poorly healed wounds.

But when sunset came, by candlelight, my mistress kept certain business for herself.   
She lived outside the barracks and not only under the command of her captain, but also because city life had a bewitching charm for her. In a pair of breeches and sometimes codpiece, a nice doublet and a cape, in an ugly English hat and her sling weapons, she had nothing to explain to anyone ...

Yet the shiny rapier, with the splendid quillon, of the marches and of the guard, the vigil and the fashion show, every now and then he remained leaning against the wall of the gray room. Those were the moments when I took the lead over the long shadows and the calm of the evening.

Certainly all this was an abominable folly, a scandal, a violence to good taste and good judgment.

The idea of playing in public seemed to have arisen out of necessity.   
At the time I still did not understand what this unknown need was. It could have been to express herself in something other than the boring military ranks, or the need to see herself improve in practice: to perform with me to demonstrate something to someone who perhaps was no longer there ...  
Anyway, for a woman, the practice of playing myself in public with my knees pulled apart and squeezed against my hips was not a practice to be proudly displayed and proud of. That's exactly what breeches were for. But even the practice of walking around dressed like a man was just as out of the graces of nature for those times.

Was then Martha the woman of reason and my mistress nothing but a poor misguided woman? Because of the Bonacieux housekeeper, I had never seen a woman play in public, let alone in a pair of French breeches.   
All this was an eternal scandal, an abominable shame!

I had to do something, I had to react in some way, but the sadness in Renée's eyes, her desire to take me away from that dark room in Switzerland to make me see the lights of the city again, made me realize that perhaps for me, for us, there 'was really still hope.

For this I accepted. I was hers. I gave her this last chance, in memory of François and all the suffering she had been through. In the end I was all that was left to her: I was her before and I would become her after. I really learned what Aramis's new secret life was.

______________

The guy from a few nights before, D'Artagnan, showed up again at her home.

"I did as you asked me, I talked to Bonacieux ..." - he said contritely, he reminded me of one of those dogs with their tails between their legs.

"And what did he tell you?" - my mistress seemed honestly intrigued by his expression.

“Better not to tell you everything word for word. He only says that business with you is better not to do it, that it would be better not to go to your home anymore. He says he is not at all willing to pay the dowry to your godfather ... ”- the young man frowned with a strange suspicion.

My mistress stretched her shoulders and sighed, let herself go confidently for just a moment, when immediately her gaze became slightly surprised.

"Do you think you suspect something?" - he asked with a more anxious do. 

“I don't know, he took care of the tailoring of the barracks. Have you ever had your uniforms sewn, like Porthos?”- he asked seriously.

"No..."- she replied, frowning.

"Do you think he noticed that you were trying to marry yourself?"- asked the guy, the boy.

Aramis sighed and shrugged.  
“Put that way it sounds so strange… This whole plan was nonsense. I really thought I could buy my freedom and instead ... Forget it! I'll find another way. Then you now want to marry Constance...”- she said in a busy manner. She didn't seem at all worried by the reaction of this unknown man.

D'Artagnan blushed.

"You could not also ask Porthos or Athos, perhaps one of them would be willing to ..." - the boy's voice became a whisper.

My mistress burst out a thought aloud:  
“Not after Joules ... But don't worry! I'll find another solution! ”- she said, checking the clock attached to the wall and noting the time. It was getting late.

"A cat always falls on its feet!"- he laughed in a clanky embarrassment, taking the road to the door.

“But I'm not a cat. I am a human being, with my defects, my life ... "- Aramis accompanied him, almost as a sign of courtesy, but there was more: with one hand on my neck, well-shod boots, belt fastened and cape close at hand. My mistress and I were ready to go out.

At those words, the young man looked at her. Some things, for some, are completely incomprehensible.

“Don't think of me now, speak rather Monsieur Alexander de Batz, so that he will accept the dowry he will ask of the Bonacieux. This time not for me! But for Constance!"

My mistress had touched one of those strings a little more sensitive than the others, it seemed that her time was running too fast.

“Once you have asked Monsieur Bonacieux for Constance's hand, you must ask your godfather, Count Alexander to negotiate a dowry. Sure Constance is a tailor's daughter while you are noble. However, if you already know how much the cost is, with the price offered by Bonacieux, you will go to Alexander and may God bless you...”- she explained, trying to remain as objective and quick as possible.

“So you didn't want to clarify my questions? Don't want to talk about your engagement? Why does it remind you of François?”- asked D'Artagnan, perhaps more interested in that distant history and their friendship than in his true feelings for Constance, almost forgetting the pain behind Noisy's events. 

My mistress looked at the time again and here she decided for a clean tear: a decisive cut in her answer and without further hesitation. The conversation evoked painful memories in her, but these had to come out to explain to his friend what was wrong, so as not to leave him again prey to his uncertainties.

“Things went differently between François and me. For when my family weren't rich enough, we were both noble. However, the Marquis Daniel never cared about these or other things... Those were different times. Unfortunately, as you know, before meeting Treville I also passed from hand to hand. Auctioned, just as a commodity!”- she continued. 

And what's the harm in being treated as a commodity? I have lived my life very well for hundreds of years ... 

...However, for some people, it may not be the same. When there is the illusion of having a choice, or that of not having an opportunity, they do not feel free to manage their destiny, to decide their life.

D'Artagnan slowly realized that statement and how painful those words were for her.

“You were the first to put your career on the line to save me. I don't think there is anything to hide at this point! Is all this the reason for so many nerves? So much hesitation?”- he asked, with equal honesty. 

My mistress nodded silently.

"Do you think that, with the stakes, prices high enough, Count Alexander would approve the wedding?"- he asked again.

My mistress's haste was interrupted for a single moment when a hint of anger against that antiquated and pompous system from which she herself was trying to free herself seemed to emerge in her question.

“What choice does Constance have in all of this? Maybe you really should meet in secret, the two of you alone and explain everything with her, without eyes or ears, judgments, and mouths ready to speak their own, gossip, ready to attack both you and the Bonacieux. It's your story! nobody should decide for you. Nor for her...”

Aramis's voice took on those arid, acute tones of the first notes, of numb wrists from helpless times. Her heels and knees showed the impatience of those waiting for their guest to leave the door. My mistress had other things to think about.

Aramis had an idea. A new plan to be implemented.

Despite the antiquity, the prices for me have always been quite high.   
With guys like me it's enough to say that I'm from this or that side, just go for auction and there is always someone willing to buy me without batting an eye. But I didn't understand what this meant for her, this was not a stake like the others, it was not an offer: it was the dowry for herself.  
By asking for a loan from Bonacieux as Aramis she could, in a sense, have married herself in Noisy and lived free in Paris. Unfortunately, something else was happening at the Bonacieux house.

No dowry and no sale, for that brief moment of grace, between one life and another.


End file.
